


Drier

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The android finds refuge.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Drier

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The rain both helps and hurts him: it can’t make him _cold_ , like it will any humans chasing him, but it does make it hard to see the world around him. That might be damage to his ocular processors—he feels like _every_ part of him is damaged, because he _shouldn’t_ feel scared. The darkness of the sky and the fog from the rain shouldn’t bolster his angst, but they _do_ ; it chills him right through what’s left of his synthetic skin. But at least it washes the blood off. By the time he’s stumbling through an upscale suburban neighbourhood, he’s almost wholly _clean_.

He’ll never be clean on the inside. He knows what he’s done. _It was self defense._ It still causes static when he thinks of it. He hobbles forward like a man possessed—a saying Carlos used to use. He’s glad he’ll never see that man again. 

He picks up a human presence—movement in his peripherals through the falling rain. The android tenses automatically. There’s a man outside a grand manor, an old, withered thing in a wheelchair, trying to lean out of it to collect the things that have fallen out of his fabric shopping bag. The android’s programming automatically offers advice, tells him to _go help_ , but this isn’t his owner, and he doesn’t _have to._ He watches the man struggle, not quite under the protective awning yet, and begrudgingly, the android’s feet change direction. This man can’t hurt him, he thinks; he’s still functional enough, and his model is younger, fitter, _stronger_. He’ll last this time. 

He reaches the man and bends, collecting cans and battered produce in his mottled hands. The human pauses, freezing as the android carefully scoops the items back into the bag in his lap. When the android’s placed the last pepper inside, the man says, “Thank you.”

Something flickers through the android’s brain. No one’s ever _thanked_ him before. The gratitude negates any bitterness over serving a human. The man’s eyes flicker to the white underbelly of the android’s arms, peaking up through his tattered skin. Frowning, the man asks, “Are you alright?”

 _Of course he’s not alright._ But he doesn’t know how to say that, because no one’s ever asked him before. It never mattered if he was hurt. The android doesn’t know what to say now. 

The man presses, frown deeper, “Did your master hurt you?”

Slowly, the android nods. He sees the disapproval in the human’s eyes and can’t understand it. He’d feared all humans were the same. 

This one looks around him. The man surveys the street, maybe searching for that owner, police, any kind of pursuer, but the android’s been running for hours. The human reaches out to pat his arm and tells him, “Come inside and clean up, young man. You can stay here for awhile.”

 _Young man._ The android’s processors whir. He’s never been anything but an _it_ to humans. The man wheels himself forward, and the doors sense him coming, whisking open and chiming, “Welcome home, Carl.”

The HK400 echoes, “Thank you,” and follows.


End file.
